


Color Coded Speak

by pterodactylichexameter



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactylichexameter/pseuds/pterodactylichexameter
Summary: “Those the reports from the Court of Nightmares?”
Feyre took the glass back, taking a sip for herself before setting it back on the table. “Mor dropped them by this morning.”--Sometimes the only way to deal with an imminent trip to the Court of Nightmares is through distraction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My secret santa gift for Mary (Feysand17)

Feyre made the mistake of thinking everything would get better after the war. And it had, in a way, of course. The High Lords had neutralized the threat of Hybern, and her family had. . . grown more accustomed to their situations.

Elain was taking an. . . entirely expected amount of ‘diplomatic’ trips to the Spring Court with a few thinly veiled excuses that everyone saw through and no one questioned. Nesta, in all her initial vitriol, had settled in the Night Court and made a place for herself here, and whether or not Cassian was a part of that was question enough for everybody.

Feyre glanced over the roof where Rhys and Cassian were training, Azriel gone for a week or so, off somewhere not even Rhys knew. While he’d been keeping tabs on damn near every player during the war, Feyre had almost been surprised to learn that the rickety times after peace needed just as much—if not more—monitoring through his networks; he was gone nearly every other week, reports flowing in from every corner of the continent when he _was_ home.

Cassian spit out a taunt, grinning and shoving back the strands of hair that had fallen out of his bun in their vigor. To him, their fights were _fun_.  Keeping his skills honed and his body ever in shape was just a bonus.  The battlefield was a far different story, a battle that she knew Cassian saw no glory in. But here? On the clean, dry rooftop of their Velaris home, where they wrestled and tackled each other for the game instead of for the victory, it was a chance to test themselves, let out a little energy. Cassian barked an amused laugh when Rhys growled in frustration as they circled each other.

From next to Feyre, Nesta called to the two males, “You two are dancing around each other like weepy, lovesick suitors.”

Feyre snorted just as Cassian lunged.

Nesta glanced, thin-lipped at her sister. “Something to say, Feyre?”

Feyre’s brows rose but she just shook her head innocently, looking back to the reports between them as the sound of Rhys’s curse and Cassian’s laugh drifted over to them. As the self-appointed archivist of post-war Prythian, Nesta had been busy of late writing the organizational system they would use in the new archives, the cross referencing codes and categorizations that would finally— _finally_ —compile both human and Fae records alike.  At first, Feyre had been skeptical of the undertaking, but Nesta was anything if efficient when she set her mind to something, and the system was falling into place and growing more tangible with each passing day.

Though they didn’t always work together or even outdoors, Nesta had showed up that morning with a stack of documents in tow and a desire for company, so they’d elected for the roof. Despite the winter chill settling into the city, the day was surprisingly warm and sunny, despite the breeze catching its fingers on the points of Feyre’s ears, her fingertips as she worked.

She’d been the one to suggest their current location, and if it had half been out of the entertainment she knew her sister and Cassian would provide, then. . .

Through the bond, even as he grappled with the commander, head entirely locked under his arm, she could hear her mate’s amused laughter. Though he rarely participated in her. . . schemes to work Cassian and Nesta into a corner until they finally snapped, her mate paid _just enough_ attention to get a laugh out of it every once in a while.

And besides, casually directing her sister’s view towards Cassian while he was training meant that she got a better view of her own mate. _Not that you need an excuse to stare_ , he threw through the bond just as he managed to escape Cassian’s grip, sending him into the wall with a grunt.

Back when she’d been mortal, Feyre would have barely seen anything more than tussling, winged blurs. Now, after living through battles, covered in blood and substances she didn’t want to dwell on, the pair seemed more like a pair of puppies nipping at each other’s tails.

Cassian managed to flip them until Rhys’s back was against the hip-high wall instead, snarling in satisfaction.

“ _Must_ you be so loud?” Nesta said, a line between her brow, frowning down at the report before filling in the rest of the filing information for that document. Though she’d enlisted the help of scholars throughout Velaris, she always insisted on assisting with the legwork. “Some of us are trying to _work_.”

Cassian paused at that (ever predictable), releasing Rhys, leaving the both of them disheveled and panting. Amused, Feyre met Rhys’s eyes over Cassian’s shoulder, and he just winked as they called for a break.

_Do you know what you’re getting yourself into_? Her mate asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

Feyre only shrugged, pressing innocence through the bond.

Cassian’s eyes drifted over Nesta, smirking as she hunched lower over the document. Feyre bit back a smile at what she knew was coming.

_This is all your fault I’ll have you know_ , Rhys teased, poking her has he grabbed the towel slung over the back of one of the chairs, wiping his face, the back of his neck.

Feyre let her eyes linger on the motion, how it stretched his shirt across his chest, his biceps. Cassian had told her near the beginning of the war that her High Lord was out of shape. She hadn’t understood it then, had been entirely surprised that one could _be_ in more shape.  But over the course of training for battles, weeks on the front lines and intense, back-breaking sessions on the practice grounds with Cassian, he’d worked himself back to his full. . . potential.

And Feyre couldn’t even pretend that she didn’t like him like this. Didn’t like pressing slow kisses to the strong column of his throat as her fingers eased over the heavy muscle joining his wings to his back. Didn’t like being sprawled over the firm expanse of his torso, or grabbing his thigh and feeling the powerful muscle taught through his trousers.

Rhys seemed to sense the turn of her thoughts, smirking as he followed Cassian to the table where they sat.

_Don’t let it go to your head_ , she replied, throwing him a snort for good measure. The last thing he needed was an excuse to flaunt his newly found form for her like a preening bird (not that she. . . minded terribly much).

Cassian reached them first, throwing an arm around Nesta’s shoulders. “You’re the ones who wanted to work out here in the first place, Sweetheart. The roof is our territory and you know that.”

She let out a disgusted scoff and lifted his arm off of her by the sleeve, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger as if she couldn’t bear to let herself touch any more of him. (Feyre, of course, knew better). As Nesta and Cassian started bickering about just _who_ had rights to the roof, Rhys reached over Feyre’s shoulder for the glass of water she’d brought out.

“Those the reports from the Court of Nightmares?”

Feyre took the glass back, taking a sip for herself before setting it back on the table. “Mor dropped them by this morning.”

He took a moment, reading over the form in front of her as the pair next to them moved on to bickering about whether or not Cassian smelled bad after their training. (“If I _do_ smell, you’re welcome to bathe with me.”) Feyre ignored the sound of her sister smacking the High Commander of the Night Court on the arm.

The reports arriving from the Court of Nightmares were troubling at best. One of the more irksome families had been stirring up some kind of. . . rebellion amongst a few of the more distant relatives in the mountain. They’d known about it for ages, and there were always seeds of rebellion, a regular mention from Azriel’s connections in the depths of that mountain.  But they’d been growing restless lately, and it was more than time to see that they listened the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. Both of them together were always. . . an impressive sight if Feyre had to admit. A little dissent, however, was nothing either of them couldn’t handle on their own.

“We should probably take care of this soon. Within the week, I’d say,” she said, looking up at him over her shoulder. “I was thinking I could go in this time. It wouldn’t take long.” A simple. . . demonstration with the leader of the resistance. It was nothing she _wanted_ to do, but if it meant that her mate didn’t. . .

“I was already planning on going the day after tomorrow anyway,” he said casually. “It’s nothing I can’t take care of then.”

She paused, didn’t hear much past the implications of his first sentence. Usually. . . usually he was all right with these kinds of things. “When did you decide you were going?”

Next to them, Nesta and Cassian were discussing the implications of Cassian’s use of the phrase “hung like an Illyrian.”

Rhys just shrugged. “A few weeks ago?”

Feyre drummed her fingers on the paper in front of her. It wasn’t that he hadn’t told her that was the problem. There were plenty of times where they’d had to travel alone, it just happened sometimes. Of course they preferred to visit their court or go on diplomatic trips together but sometimes that simply wasn’t possible. But this was what she signed up for. Not just the good days but the long ones too. The weeks at a time that she sometimes went without her mate.  The court came first and foremost and if they were lucky, there would be time at the end of most days, the weeks, to decompress in each other’s arms.

She _liked_ the way they lived. There was gratification in working long days and seeing their people, smiling with their families, their loved ones, in the streets of Velaris.

But the Court of Nightmares was. . . That court was different. Neither of them came back from that living hellhole the same. It took weeks sometimes to return to themselves. She could deal with it well enough—as well as one could deal with it. But Rhys? For all they told each other, all he let past his defenses, showed her in the moments he allowed her into his mind, she knew there were parts of him he preferred to keep buried. To keep away from her. With good reason, she knew he’d always thought.

She’d seen him fully in his other form only once during the war. Only for a few moments, a whirlwind of darkness and smoke that ate away at all the light, the heat of the world. He’d consumed the brightness of the day around them, shredded it in his talons and devoured it in the dark, endless expanses of nothingness that had been his eyes. Even his wings had grown, leaking Night and power and everything that innocence cowered from.

She’d never forgotten.  Never would and she knew that part of him, a part he tried to tamper down as best he could, hated that she’d seen. The Court of Nightmares brought him closer to the beast that roamed beneath his skin. It brought him closer to the self-hatred that broke something in her to see.

While they tended to agree to most larger decisions regarding their court, the Court of Nightmares was not among them.

“You could have said something,” she murmured.

He swallowed and she pretended she didn’t feel his shields easing into position, as if already preparing himself to shut part of himself down when he walked into that mountain.  “Feyre,” he tried to placate mentally, with their friends still next to them.

She didn’t bother raising her shields, letting her worry for him, of returning to that place, what it would do to him when she could go herself. She let everything spill down the bond, felt him turn it over in his mind, taking it in without responding for a moment.

“You have the meeting in summer this week,” he reminded her and _damn him_ she’d forgotten all about them and— “Feyre, you know there’s no getting out of it.”

She nudged him slightly through the bond, patience wearing thin. Of course she knew that someone had to go. She just didn’t want it to be him. Didn’t want to feel him close himself off to the world, to _her_ , as he gave more of himself than he could spare to that place.

She cleared her throat. “I know.”

\--

Later that evening, after Rhys had bathed, they’d had a quiet dinner on the roof, soaking up the last few bits of the sun’s heat, Rhys’s wings stretched out indulgently behind him.  It was quiet now, with Cassian and Nesta gone (together, she’d half-heartedly noticed), quiet enough that she could hear the wind shifting through the leaves of the potted plants nearby.

After their conversation that afternoon, quiet was all that seemed to pass between them. It wasn’t a fight per se. She wasn’t angry with him and she knew he wasn’t angry with her, even past the concerningly solid barriers of the other end of the bond all afternoon. It was more of a. . . standstill. Despite the years they’d spent together, decades since their bond had shifted into place, there had never ceased to be frustration whenever a trip to the darker half of their court was urged into necessity. At first, since her initial visit, it had been him concealing the darker parts of him for fear of frightening her away, nervous that she would see him and be disgusted, despite her insistence that would never be the case.

Now, the Court of Nightmares evoked a different sort of tension in their bond, one that stemmed from the question of where the line between them rested, of whose burden it was to bear. Both of them wanted to shoulder it and neither wanted the other to.

But this time. . . there would be no disagreeing about it. She had to meet the diplomats. And Rhys would go to the Court of Nightmares. And there was little use in pouting about it. That would get them both nowhere. And besides that, she didn’t want to send him off in such a callous manner or bookend his trip with worries and frustrations.

Feyre looked up, nudging her mate through the bond from across the small wrought iron table. “I think we deserve to retire early, don’t you think?”

Rhys paused, leaning back in his chair. His eyebrows rose. “Is this one of your schemes to distract me from this afternoon, darling?”

Through the bond, his shields remained intact, but just for her, he let a thread of amusement slip through a crack. It was a start.

Feyre bit her lip, a slow, teasing smile spreading across her face. “Is it working?” She pressed warmth through the bond, a gentle reminder of which set of underthings she’d put on that morning. While she saved some outfits for. . . special occasions, she’d allowed herself to indulge over the years in sets of pretty little things that made her feel. . . powerful. There were more comfortable sets, of course, for the rare off days she spent lying around their home.  But. . . most days she had no shame in looking entirely deadly both _in_ her clothes _and_ out of them. Especially not when it meant her mate’s hungry eyes roaming over her skin.

Rhys’s gaze dropped from her lips to the low scoop neck of her bodice, tracing lovingly over the trim at the top of her breasts. He pressed lightly at the bond from across the table, a question, if this was really what she wanted to do given this afternoon.

But she pushed back out of her chair, circled the table and slid delicately into his lap.  “Rhys,” she said, smile fading as his arms naturally came up around her.

He nuzzled into her shoulder, pressed a kiss to the bend between her shoulder and neck as she settled against him, allowing herself to take comfort in his scent enveloping her, the firmness of his torso against her side.

She swallowed, hand braced on his shoulder sliding to the back of his neck, running her fingers through the hair at the back of his head.  “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide from me when you come back,” she murmured, watching his expression from the corner of her eye.

He took a slow breath, deep enough she could feel his abdomen, his ribcage, expanding with it.  “This is an interesting way of distracting me,” he finally said, voice low, humor forced into it.

She huffed, but looked at him again, could feel the barriers rising again through the bond and she. . . she couldn’t have that. Not in the days before he had to leave.  She kissed the top of his head where he was bent against her, smoothed her hand over his shoulders as he held her to him, one hand on her waist, the other wrapped over her thighs.  And she didn’t say anything more, couldn’t find the words to even begin to.

So she found his chin, cupped his cheek and drew his mouth up to hers. His lips were slightly chapped in the onset of winter. Her mate could be fairly. . . possessive in his kisses, but this time he let her guide him through it, soft and slow at first. Allowed them to relish in the feel of simply being there, being together and being pressed against each other.  When her lips parted against his and she traced the seam of his lips with her tongue, he let out a low noise in the back of his throat, hands tightening around her as he opened his mouth to her.

He still tasted like their dinner, spiced lamb and dark wine and when he pressed back into her, hand wrapped around her waist roaming up her back to cup the back of her neck, drawing her slightly harder against his mouth, her fingers dug slightly harder into his shoulders, the nape of his neck.

“Feyre,” he murmured, voice thick, when she drew away, bent to kiss down his jaw, suck lightly below his ear. The bond between them was beginning to warm, sending heat pulsing through her belly.

She didn’t answer, shifting in his lap until she was straddling him. She had to hike her skirts up above her knees and felt his warm palms bracing on her hips.  There was something comforting about sitting entirely alongside him like this, pressing into his chest where he was leaning against the back of the chair.

And when he drew her mouth back up to his, kissing her deeper, she rolled her hips gently across his lap.

Her name fell out on his breath and she continued, a slow, rhythmic pace as she braced her hands on his shoulders, muscle hard beneath her fingers.  Through the bond, she eased her reassurances, her need that they do this slow tonight. She didn’t want him hard and fast as they sometimes did before either of them left on a trip.

Rhys’s hands dug into her hips, pulling her a little more firmly into him, breaths turning heavy.

She winnowed them inside in the space of half a second.  Their bedroom snapped into place around them and she deposited him on the edge of the bed.  Though she’d been fully intending doing this mostly for him, so he didn’t have to head into that place on a bad note, the broad press of his hands around her waist, sliding around to grab her backside was enough that she could already feel the slickness between her thighs. Could imagine the feel of the length of him through his trousers sliding into her.

“Rhys—“ His voice came out in a whisper as he wrapped an arm more firmly around her waist, holding her against him as he guided her back onto the bed. She scooted back until she was against the pillows, drawing him up with her, pulling at his shirt as their mouths met in another kiss, sloppier than before.

He helped her with his shirt, drawing it up over his head by the collar, and then he was bracing an elbow next to her head, leaning down to kiss her again as her hands roamed his bare torso. The strength in his shoulders, the broadness of his chest. . . He’d unfurled his wings farther in flipping them, and they rose up over his back, wide expanses of dark membrane with night rolling off of them.

The sight never failed to impress her.

But then the sight of his wings was the last thing on her mind, because he found her bare thigh under her skirt, sliding up to bring her dress around her waist. She murmured his name at his fingers nudging under the lace edge wrapped over her hip.  It was supposed to be _him_ she was taking care of. Not the other way around.

Feyre nudged gently at his chest until he drew up off of her, brow drawn in question. _What is it_? But she just offered him a teasing smile and murmured at him until he rolled onto his back, wings pinned against the bed. She inched down, kissing his chin, his throat, down his chest, over his taught stomach to the waistband of his trousers.

“You don’t have to-“ he was saying, but she vanished the rest of his clothes, making him jolt ever so slightly in surprise.

“What if I want to?” She ran her hand along the length of his outer thigh, settling between his legs.  He sucked in a low breath, watching her carefully as she kissed the hard jut of his hipbone, dragged her teeth faintly across his warm skin.   “No protests to that?” she teased, blinking up at him with an innocent smile, taking him in her hand, giving him a slow stroke.

He just growled a curse, head falling back.

“That’s what I thought,” she said smugly and took him in her mouth.

He was already entirely hard against her as she eased down as far as she wanted to go, wrapping her hand around the rest. He was holding himself back, she knew, from lifting his hips to press into her, hand fisting in the sheet, the other threading through her hair.

He muttered another curse as she laved her tongue along the head, picking up a slow, steady rhythm.

She was surprised he lasted as long as he did before finding her hand, drawing her up, over him. “Don’t you want me to—“ she started, sucking in a breath at the sudden chill on her skin as he vanished her dress along with the lacy undergarments she’d thought he would appreciate.

But through the bond, he pressed the heat of his wanting, a silent request that he wanted to hold her and feel her body against his. As much as he admittedly very thoroughly enjoyed the her mouth, he wanted to make her feel equally as satisfied with what he could do to her.

He reached down between her thighs, humming his satisfaction at how wet she already was. She let out a low moan at his fingers slipping through her folds, pressing lightly over her clit.  “Rhys—“ Her nails bit into his forearm as she drew him away, not wanting the teasing tonight. Just wanting _him_.

Usually they might speak, he might murmur how beautiful she looked or she might put her mouth next to his ear and tell him exactly what she’d been thinking about all day. But both of them seemed to be content in the peace of themselves for the night. To just take pleasure in the feel of each other’s bodies and breath and warmth.

Feyre drew back, bracing herself against his chest enough to position him before sliding down onto him. Rhys’s fingers clamped tighter onto her hips and she couldn’t hold back a low, whimpering moan as she sunk down, eyes slipping shut as he filled her.

Her name rumbled up from his throat, pleasure throbbing down the bond, making her chest tighten, heat low in her belly. She murmured something again, drawing a slow breath before leaning back down against him, withdrawing slowly before sinking back onto him.

He muttered another curse, lips parting against her neck.

She rode him easily, in no rush but not lingering when she didn’t need to. Entirely deliberate in her motions, the heat of his breath across her skin, his calloused fingers eventually slipping between them where he rubbed over her in rhythmic, steady circles until she was panting against him.

And when she finally climaxed, shuddering against him, he wrapped his arm around her waist, flipping them.  He could have had her hard and fast, tearing towards a second climax, but he took his time, thrusting into her slow and deep and hitching her leg higher on his hips to grind against her with every movement.

She came a second time, gasping and sensitive, fingers buried in his hair, and he followed her after, weight pressing hers into the mattress.

It was afterwards, when they’d cleaned up and settled back against each other, her back against his chest, that she wound her fingers through his.

He pressed a kiss against the back of her neck. “You’re so patient with me.”

She turned, looking over her shoulder, line between her brows. “What do you mean?”

He eyed her, neither smiling nor frowning, not exactly.  “I know it’s. . . difficult to go to the Court of Nightmares. It’s one thing together but it’s. . . you know how different it is alone.”

Feyre nodded slowly, because she did. That place was unforgiving. It was all too easy to lose yourself in it, to forget who you really were.

Rhys lifted their hands threaded together and kissed the side of her palm. “I’m. . . trying to get better about this. But you know how—“ his breath hitched and she wiggled around in his arms until they were facing each other.

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for needing to go there. Not to anyone and especially not to me.”

“But I am,” he murmured. “I _am_ sorry that you have to. . . to play the game like this and go there and put on that damn mask and—“

She quieted him before he could continue, could go down that road again. “When I was sworn in as High Lady, I wasn’t just accepting the Court of Dreams, and you know that. This is. . .” she squeezed his hand. “This is our court and I just—You’re not the same when you come back from that place. And I know we have to go there, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Rhys let out a slow breath, and he didn’t have to say anything, could feel it through the bond. That there was no getting out of it but they were working on accepting it. It had been one thing when Rhys was alone, when he had his friends to support him. It was entirely another when she was on the other side of that bond. When she could feel the walls he slammed into place to make himself the High Lord of the Night Court. Or at least, the façade of the Night Court.

But even then. . . Feyre pulled him a little more firmly against her, and opened her shields to reassure him that she would be here when he returned.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me in my trashcan on [tumblr](http://pterodactylichexameter.tumblr.com)!


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